A Galloway Garland
WE know not, on these hills of ours,The fabled asphodel of Greece,That filleth with immortal flowersFields where the heroes are at peace!Not ours are myrtle buds like theseThat breathe o’er isles where memories dwellOf Sappho, in enchanted seas!
We meet not, on our upland moor,The singing Maid of Helicon,You may not hear her music pureFloat on the mountain meres withdrawn;The Muse of Greece, the Muse is gone!But we have songs that please us wellAnd flowers we love to look upon.
More sweet than Southern myrtles farThe bruised Marsh-myrtle breatheth keen;Parnassus names the flower, the star,That shines among the well-heads greenThe bright Marsh-asphodels between—Marsh-myrtle and Marsh-asphodelMay crown the Northern Muse a queen